


Fandom Advent 2016

by Chelzbuckwheat



Category: Hat Films - Fandom, The Yogscast
Genre: Advent Challenge, Christmas, College AU, Gen, M/M, Multi, Urban Magic Yogs, after the fire au, multiple AUs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 18:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8724682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chelzbuckwheat/pseuds/Chelzbuckwheat
Summary: Collection of stories for the Fandom Advent by Three&Leon, two of my favorite writers in the fandom. Figured I try to give back to the two people that have been monumental in my mental health over the last year <3 Thanks you guys for being awesome writers and not being afraid to tell the stories you need to tell.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to go home when you find solace in people and not places.
> 
> Day One - Not going home for Christmas  
> College Days AU

“Are you sure you don’t want to come down with us to Tom’s?” Ross’ roommate asked him. It had been the third time since Ross rolled out of bed and into the kitchen.

“I have work tonight, and won’t get home until like 10 tomorrow morning - it’s fine.” Ross cracked open a can of soda, licking the small spitz of it off the mound of his palm. The leftovers from the local pizza shop buzzed in the microwave; Ross hoped it would block out Mark’s insistent coddling.

“We weren’t planning on leaving until about noon - dinner’s late this year.”

Ross sighed.

“That’s what you keep saying,” Ross muttered to himself before making himself take a sip. Ross had made up his mind last week - he was an adult, he didn’t have to go home for Christmas. What even was home anyways? There was nothing left of him in his home town - all of his friends had flown the coup, having done the tradition four education. He was never close to his family beyond his mother and his niece; mid-semester he had gotten a call that his mother had 72 hours to pack up and move to a different state. With no where to stay except for a crash-and-burn-but-still-invested ex’s house, holiday pay didn’t seem like that bad of an idea.

“Don’t you miss doing stuff other than sleeping?”

“I don’t mind the hours.”

“But extended third shift is so much. Are you ever going to make time for yourself?”

“Have a great break Mark.” Ross tried his best not to slam the bedroom door behind him. Mark was a great friend, but holy shit did he have the Dad complex. Ross rubbed the sleep from his eyes, knocking about the clothes thrown across the floor. Ross dragged his laptop from the desk into bed with him, and curled the blanket around him.

It still smelled like the two boys Ross really wanted to go home with for the holiday.

He tried not to think about it - it would be so long until he saw either one of them again. Trott was going home for all break, and Smith could only spare not even a week; Ross spent most of the time at the Shelter or at class. The guilt of not making more time for them was a dull ache that he had carried with him for days now.

Ross realized that trying to do any of the work that needed done would be a waste of time now; Ross could only think about crinkled crow’s feet, a tangle of almost-ginger hair, and the tight goodbye hugs. He let his food go cold and his soda untouched. Drawing his pillows closer to him, he cradled himself between mounds of blanket and pillows, and pretended the bed was fuller than it really was.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coincidences are just coincidences unless you live in the city of magic.
> 
> Day One - Not Going Home for Christmas  
> UMY

He hadn’t let himself come back here since Smith had pulled him from the burning stones.

Ross tried not to think of that day, not this close to the ruins of his church. Even after all this time, Ross was still afraid of going back to Dreaming, of not being Awake. His first true memory was still clear as day - it was two Christmas Eve’s ago when suddenly he could see the twinkling city-line before him. After realizing he was Awake, Ross couldn’t not look, too afraid not to. What if he would lose this new consciousness? Ross felt his body trembling, and for the first time Ross could move. It hurt at first, pinpricks erupting from his hand as he unclenched his carved fist. The curve of his spine creaked and the stone rubbed in protest. He was scared - what if he would never exist again? Ross wanted to stay Awake - he needed to stay Awake.

Ross had to remind himself he wasn’t in that moment anymore. Instead, Ross stood in the spot the beatboxing man stood when Ross Dreamt. He wasn’t there, making beats beneath his hand. Ross was sad - he had hoped to be able to put a face to the memories. Instead Ross found malformed cement, broken glass, and dirtied snow. Almost no one was on the street - there were no footsteps Ross could recall from his perching days, no footsteps at all once the woman turned the corner. Disheartened, Ross continued down the back street, shrugging the hood of his sweatshirt closer to his cheeks. He beatboxed meekly into this thick scarf, trying to quiet the heaviness in his chest.

It had taken a considerable time for Ross to develop his own voice - he had accumulated the grammar, the vernacular, the desire to be able to talk through the time he Dreamt. Ross hadn’t been able to speak even after Smith had taken him home; it took Trott many days before he knew what Ross was, let alone if Ross could even learn to speak. It wasn’t until the day Ross lost his pointed ears that he could make noises. It had been almost a month, and each day Ross lost his gargoyle features. He had cottonmouth and a small lisp when he first spoke, but it wasn’t long before Ross was beatboxing.

The tinkle of a faint bell brought Ross back from his thoughts. He was overwhelmed with the smell of cinnamon, only realizing the thick sweet vanilla when he tasted it in the air. Ross felt his tail twitch happily in his pant leg as he quickened his pace towards the door with the coffee cup sign hanging above it.  
The shop air was heavy and fragrant with heat. It was tiny, just a door that separated the kitchen from the few tables, bar stools at each side and along the far side of a breakfast bar acting as a check-out area. There was a young woman who stood at the bar, cleaning mugs and smiling at Ross.

“What can I get you sir?”

“Is there anything that has vanilla and cinnamon, together?” The woman gave a sweet curve of a sad smile.

“Missie’s Stickies, yeah. They’re homemade sticky buns, grilled on a flat-top.”

“Can I get 10?” The young lady laughed outwardly and just typed in the order.

“Uh sure - “ she purred. “For someone who doesn’t know our most famous item, you sure must like them.”

“I have been waiting a long time to try them,” Ross recovers, slipping the girl the money.

“Go have a seat, I have to go cook em up.” As the girl tied an apron around her thin middle, Ross crossed the tiny shop. There were newspaper clippings about the shop framed along the wall. It was a newer shop, a little over a year old - but the pictures were from before the shop. Most of them depicted the woman Ross remembered, who smelled like his favorite smell. She held a tray of 8 stickie buns, round spiraling mounds of dough spattered with wet brown sugar and cinnamon. The newspaper articles told the story of how the woman worked for a soup kitchen down the road, back towards the church. She would make baked goods and portion them out to the homeless people that came into the soup kitchen.

The next frame held a photo of the soup kitchen that “started it all” - it was the building across the street from the church; Ross remembered the loud shatters that slammed in summer storms. Ross could barely see the reflection of the church in a far window. There was a picture of Missie again, this time with an elderly man with dark skin, his head topped with the hat Ross remembered seeing with the beatboxing man. Together they held an oversized check for $500 dollars, made out to Missie. The article told Ross that the money had been from Charlie’s Beats, a local music store started up by the “previously homeless musician who Missie would see every day on her way to the soup kitchen”. The check was from his government grant to fund a music program for at-risk kids living in the inner-city.

Ross had read all but one of the articles when he heard the kitchen door swing open and its headline read “Miss Missie will be Missed”.

“Here you go sir! 10 nice and warm stickies!”

“What happened to Missie?” Ross asked as he approached the counter. He watched the smile falter, and the young women gave a sigh.

“Missie died in a car accident, driving back from the soup kitchen on Christmas Eve two years ago. She died on impact, along with someone in the back seat of the other car, but the other driver was nowhere to be found.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The hardest part was knowing she wasn’t coming home for Christmas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've always liked the idea of Ross' existence being split between full-reality and half-reality. And the journey between half- and full-reality being malleable and alive within itself.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2: In the Snow
> 
> "After the Fire" AU by leonandon and threeplusfire

“So, who plows the plowman?”

“Whoever he damn well pleases,” Ross muttered under his breath. He gave the ignition another stern twist, but the engine remained silent. Ross had knew this day would come - but in the middle of a freak snow storm in October? Ross rubbed the tension from his temples as Smith twiddled with his seat belt. “We’re going to have to walk back and get the tow truck.” Ross shoved open the truck door, leaving the keys where they dangled uselessly - no one would even bother to take it, and if they did want it they were shit outta luck. The truck wasn’t going anywhere - Ross knew the timing belt had snapped from the loud snap within the hood. The barn was only about a mile back; they had barely gotten beyond Ross’ road before the truck lost traction and merrily drifted into the shallow ditch. They would have just been able to muscle the thing back onto the road had it not been for the torn timing belt.

Shiloh leaped and bounded around in the thigh high snow, disappearing before bobbing back up. Smith was glad he had his boots on - the postal office had advised to get them early and break them in before snow was actually an issue. He and Ross, were however without proper snow wear - it wouldn’t take long for them to be drenched from the navel down.

“I’m guessing this doesn’t typically happen when you run the plow?” Smith flinched at the cold stare Ross gave him - Ross was rarely harsh with Smith, but Smith took the hint. “I’m sorry man.” Ross sighed, patted Smith on the shoulder once, and lugged his over-night backpack out of the truck bed and onto the ground. The air was cold, the morning light barely breaking through the thick clouds rolling overhead. While it wasn’t eminently dangerous for them to be this under-prepared, Ross did not want to risk having to make a hospital run on top of everything else. Ross gave a short whistle and didn’t have to look to know his goofy dog was frolicking towards him. He dug out four dog booties, a small fluorescent green dog vest, two chemical hand warmers, his gloves, bandana, and wool cap.

“Crack these a while, they take a few minutes to really get going,” Ross said, tossing Smith two small bags of chemical hand warmers. Shiloh stood at Ross’ heels, tail ever-wagging. “I know you don’t like these but they’ll help,” Ross cooed, grabbing Shi by the collar before she could duck out of grasp. She was a good girl - she’d at least keep them on if he could wrangle her into them. She didn’t mind the vest one bit, but despised the boots - Ross always saved the vest for last as a small thank you. He cupped her face in his hands, her floppy ears soft under his hands. He gave her a small kiss, and stood to face Smith.

Ross assessed Smith’s gear - no jacket, more of a thick zip-down sweatshirt, a long shirt, what looks like thrift-shop jeans, though Ross was never good at distinguishing Label design buys and a spring cleaning toss-away. At least he had boots and fingerless gloves. The hand-warmers would help with that. “Here take this,” Ross offered handing the wool hat over to Smith. “You need your hands and head to be warm.” Smith took it, though slowly. It was hard to say if Smith was remembering a time before his move or just judging the hat - Ross didn’t pry either way. Ross slipped the folded bandana and tied it back, careful to fully cover his ears. Slipping on the leather gloves back onto his hands, he zipped up the backpack and his own jacket. Walking back would take over an hour so they might as well start.

Smith wordlessly offered one of the hand warmers to Ross, and Ross hummed at the heat. Shiloh kept at Ross’ side, yipping softly at any stray birds. Smith had slipped on the hat, and Ross decided he looked nice in the black slouch beanie. Ross had bought it as a DIY sky mask if he ever needed one for his over-night bag. Ross was more reluctant to cut the holes into it more so now.

“It’s lucky that you had emergency stuff,” Smith started, his breath vapors before him.

“I never leave the house without one.”

“Really?”

“You never know what could happen, and that’s when you need the most.” Ross knew the minute he said it, he had guaranteed himself at least ten minutes of silence. He wished he had more of a filter like Trott did - his ability to say the right thing at the right time was almost unnatural. Ross was too raw for that - he had only himself to offer, why try to skew that? Ross instead listened to them walking - the crunch of the snow, even and slow with intermittent double-times thanks to Shiloh. He wasn’t breathing heavily yet, but Smith seemed to having more of a struggle. Ross was not a fan of Smith’s revived smoking habit - the smoke and nicotine blocked out the citrus and pine smell that lingered in Smith’s hair. The bags under Smith’s tired eyes had returned as well - the holidays were still a ways off, but close enough for it to become stifling. Ross made the mental note of checking up on Trott when he got done with the snow removal today - chances were he was starting to feel the squeeze of the holidays too.

“Are you warm enough?” Ross questioned, looking towards Smith. His cheeks were flushed a faint pink, his lips parted as he breathed.

“Yeah, thanks for the hat and the heat pack,” Smith replied, motioning to the hands in his jacket pockets.

“I’ll start putting an extra jacket in my truck for you.”

“You don’t really gotta do that.”

“Yes, I do.” Smith let the matter lie. He was touched by the notion really. Smith could barely remember to charge his phone at night, let alone go through the process of providing emergency clothing for his friends. He ran his fingers over the plastic bag of the heat pack, its warmth soaking through his cold fingers. Smith had been avoiding getting out his winter clothing. It meant rummaging through his things, knowing very well it would set him off. He was mad at himself for letting it eat at him - had it not been for Ross’ preparedness, the walk home could have been much more perilous for him. For God’s sake, even Shiloh was accounted for.

“Thank you, Ross.” Ross looked at his friend - it had been said so quietly, Ross wondered if it was meant for him to hear it. Ross smiled lightly, reached down for Shiloh’s ear and bumped shoulders with Smith. He could feel the man’s heat through their jackets and hummed happily at the touch.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Four - Law enforcement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I fell off the proverbial band wagon early December due to some mental health issues and demanding work obligations, but I will be pecking out some more chapters in the next few weeks to months. I probably won't do all of the prompts, due to lack of inspiration or one of you lovely people pretty much wrote the chapter I had in mind while I was off. Hope you enjoy your new year, and all the memories yet to be made <3

“I hear the sirens now - they’re close.”

“Just stay on the line until first responders get there.”

“Yeah, okay.” Smith groaned into Trott’s chest - Trott tried to shush him with a gentle kiss against his temple. Smith weakly gripped at Trott’s collar, whimpers stumbling between his inhales.

“Is your friend still conscious?”

“Yeah, he’s just in shock I think.”

“That is a common response to being shot, just make sure there is pressure on the wound.” Trott’s stomach rolled at her aloofness, but tried to breathe through the nausea. Trott had tied his belt around the top of Smith’s thigh, taken off his undershirt to soak up the blood while he applied pressure to it. Hurting Smith had made Trott cry, but the dispatcher reassured him if it hurt, he was probably doing it right.

“Is he at all responsive?” Trott looked down at the matted locks of Smith’s hair. Smith gave a tired whine, but nodded into Trott’s damp chest.

“He is.”

“Has your own bleeding stopped yet?” Trott flinched as he rolled his neck to crane the phone against his shoulder. The asshole that bottled the back of his head had good aim, Trott cursed as his fingers caressed the matted bump at the base of his neck.

“It’s fine - just sore.” Flashing lights splayed across the wall Trott had dragged him and Smith to. The muggers had left them there - hurt and walletless, but alive at least. The shot to the leg had placated Smith immediately and Trott had forfeited their wallets before there could have been a second shot. “There’s a police car here.”

“He is going to act as your first responder until the EMT’s get there, accompany you two to the hospital, and deal with the legal stuff after you have been looked at.” The car turned off his sirens and lights, leaving only the running lights - Trott’s headache was grateful.

“Thank you ma’am.”

“Good luck with your friend Chris.” The line ended as the Officer quickly approached them. Trott wrapped his arm around Smith’s shoulder and held him close - Smith shivered even though he was hot.

“Chris Trott?” the officer asked. He was young, Trott realized - close to his own age. The facial hair he sported made him look older, a pointed goatee with the beginnings of a beard.

“That’s me, yeah.” There were faint sirens in the night again - the ambulance would be here soon.

“I’m Officer Hornby, I was dispatched to your location. Is your friend stable?”

“In shock I think.”

“I’m going to take his vitals,” Officer Hornby stated. He placed down the first aid bag, rummaging for a stethoscope and arm tourniquet.

“Smith, hey.” Smith nodded softly. Trott leaned back to look at Smith’s face, but his eyes were closed. “Hey, Smith. Alex,” Trott repeated, taking his blood-smeared hand from Smith’s thigh. He brushed his bangs from his face. “Sunshine, look at me.” Officer Hornby took Smith’s arm from Trott’s chest, wrapping the plastic cuff around his bicep. Smith’s bright eyes fluttered open but they were unfocused. “Spell my name for me Alex.”

“You’re so dumb, you can’t even spell your own name.”

“You know I’m dumb, help me out Mr. Know-it-all.”

“C-R-I-S-P T-R-O-U-T.”

“Close enough,” Trott resigned.

“His vitals are okay.” Officer Hornby offered Trott a small bottle of water. “Start with this and try to get him to drink. He needs to stay hydrated to remain stable.” The officer’s radio cracked with a voice, and he turned away to respond.

“Hey Smith, you thirsty?”

“Fucking parched.” Trott undid the cap and tipped the bottle for him before Smith helped himself. “I’m been shot Trott, I’m not a baby.” Trott rolled his eyes but was happy to hear Smith’s humor.

“Can you walk?” the officer asked.

“I can, I don’t think Smith will be able to.”

"Well, let’s get you two off the cold ground at least. On the count of three?” Officer Hornby offered Trott a hand up, and then wrapped Smith’s arm around his shoulders. Trott wouldn’t have been surprised if he could hoist Smith up - the guy the built underneath the bulletproof vest. But Trott needed to be touching Smith - if not for Smith’s safety, than for his own. The air was cold without Smith, and he could feel the adrenaline leaving him. Trott wrapped his arm around Smith’s hips and Smith’s arm draped around the shorter man’s shoulders. They stumbled Smith to the back of the police car, where he fell into the seat with a grunt. 

“Trott, I feel weird.”

“Weird how?”

“I feel like I’ve been running a marathon,” Smith slurs, dragging Trott’s hand to his chest. The heavy beating was fast, but not dangerous, Trott guessed. The officer looked over his shoulder when the flashing lights of an ambulance break the night. He walked away from the car, flagging the ambulance down. “Are we going to the hospital?”

“Yeah Smith, you need to.”

“I’m not that bad.”

“Smith, you were shot,” Trott snapped. He tried not to be mad at Smith - it was probably just the shock disorienting him. Trott wondered how much his own trauma affected him - Trott hadn’t given any thought to himself since he heard the gunshot. Smith didn’t even yell - he just stared at his leg, blood seeping through his pants. Smith laced his fingers in through Trott’s, and it grounded Trott’s thoughts. Smith needed him here, not mentally trapped in the alley way. Smith’s temples were beaded with sweat, and Trott reminded Smith of the water bottle. 

“I just want to go home.”

“Soon sunshine, don’t worry.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 5 - Live music

The sound of live music floated into the night, escaping the crammed bar and small entertaining space. Smith and Ross huddled together in the bar line, only a couple of heads from paying the door fee. This was their typical Friday night - out of work by 9, in line by 10 to get drinks and with enough time to squeeze to the front of the crowd for their favorite cover band. It was the first Friday night with snow, and it collected in Ross’ hair and shimmering in the night lights. Smith breathed into his hands, rubbing them in the cold air. Ross slipped his hand into Smith’s back pocket, and Smith could feel the heat on the curve of his ass.

“How are you warm?”

“It’s my favorite night, at my favorite bar, with my favorite person, how could I be cold?” Ross pulled Smith close, cupping his gloved hand around Smith’s neck as he kissed him. Smith hummed happily and pulled away with a smile. Ross’ small smirk lit up his eyes and Smith forgot about the cold.

It wasn’t very much longer until Smith could shake off the rest of the cold - the door fee was an easy $5 drop tonight. The body-warmed bar bustled with patrons, and Ross curled his fingers around Smith’s hips as they pushed to the bar. They ordered their drinks just in time to get the $6 tea pitchers, and shimmied their way to the stage with one in each hand. The band was just about to start, Ross pointing out the lead singer bobbing his way to the stage. Smith had admitted to a sex dream or two about the lead singer, and Ross had laughed - he admitted to the same about the secondary singer who was always leading what he called his “emo songs”.

The crowd hushed at the first note of the guitar, and Smith drained his pitcher before the third song was over. It felt good to belt out lyrics Smith had found comfort in those years ago. It felt even better to sing them now, in a bar with a warm chest and an even warmer boyfriend pressed up against him, screaming the lyrics in his ear.

“I’m gonna get more, d’ya want any?” Smith asked between songs. Ross only held up his half-gone pitchers and smiled. “Just one” he mouthed and winked. Smith slapped Ross’ ass and squeezed his way through the crowd, vanishing between two small screaming girls. Ross sipped at his pitcher, and took the moment to look around. It wasn’t as full as last weekend had been - the snow must have kept some people at home. Not to say that it wasn’t full, it was still shoulder to shoulder close to the stage, but there was plenty of room to jump around in the back.

When Ross turned back to the front, a guy on the other end of the stage caught his eye. He had his hand over his cup, his arms crossed, shoulder hunched, and a tight expression. Behind and aside of him were what looked to be rowdy frat boys. One was trying to get the brunett’s attention by leaning into his space. The guy just continued to look around him, eyes locked onto the main stage, though it looked like he wasn’t actually seeing the band in front of him. Once they put a hand on the brunett’s arm, Ross was already halfway across the stage. His time as a battered women’s advocate had taught him how to screen body language and spot an offender, and he could tell his guy was not in a good situation. He pushed through the small group of girls and reached for the shorter man.

“Hey man! Sorry I’m late!” Ross yelled over the music. The brunett looked startled, but noticed that Ross was wedging space between him and the frat boys. Ross gave him a small smile and a nod. “Smith’s at the bar, we should go meet him there.”

“I think he likes it up here with us, mate,” one of the frat boys yelled, putting his hand on Ross’ shoulder. The guy was about Ross’ height, something that usually gave Ross the advantage. The letters on his jacket belonged to a fraternity to the college nearby, and the guys reeked of liquor.

“I need a refill anyways. Don’t worry I’ll be back,” the brunett bellowed out, showing his empty cup. The frat brother seemed to be appeased at that, and gave his friends what he probably thought was a sly grin - Ross was about to crook the guy’s teeth when the brunett grabbed his hand and pulled him away from the troublemakers. They didn’t stop splitting the crowd until they broke out the back of it, leaving the music behind them.

“You okay?” Ross asked as the brunett took back his hand, but didn’t look at him. Ross could see the small shake in his shoulders, still hunched. Ross rounded to his front, his hand hovering near his shoulder, unsure. Tears welled up in his brown eyes, but he wiped them away when he saw Ross was still there.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah no problem.” He gave the guy a bright smile, but didn’t get one in return. He instead looked over his shoulder, back to the stage and shook his head.

“What a bunch of dicks.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that,” Ross offered. “The name’s Ross.”

“Trott,” the guy returned. “Thanks again.”

“Yeah no problem. You’re more than welcome to watch the show with me and my boyfriend.”

“No, I’m probably just going to go home.”

“Hey Ross!” Smith greeted as he bursted into Ross’ and Trott’s space. He had a pitcher in each hand, and a sloppy smile on his face.

“Hey Smith, this is Trott.”

“Heya, I’d shake your hand but,” Smith clanked the pitchers together and gave a small chuckle. “You know Ross?”

“Some guys were bugging him,” Ross interjected. Smith smiled and rolled his eyes, but looked to Trott.

“Do you need me to beat someone up?” Trott was struck by how serious Smith seemed.

“No, I’m just gonna go -”

“No, you gotta stay now!”

“I don’t wanna ruin your guys’ night.”

“You’re not, it’ll be great. Beside, Ross will worry about you the entire time if you go now. We’ll just walk you home after.” It was Ross’ turn to look sheepish, but it was true. Ross blamed his Bystander Training for being such a bleeding heart, though Smith would say he was like that long before. Ross looked to Smith, then back to Trott.

“Alright -”

 “Do you need anything to drink? The special on teas is about to end, so gotta be quick,” Smith said, another grin lighting up his face. Trott smiled back but shook his head. He held up his own cup.

“It was just some Coke - just wanted a cup to make it look like I was drinking.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go back in and celebrate the weekend shall we?” Smith handed Ross his pitcher, and linked arms with him as he began to dive into the crowd once more. Ross outstretched a hand, and Trott gripped it tight.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 6 - Fast Car
> 
> Sorry these last few have been a bit shorter. These were all started before I took my break, so hopefully the rest will be a bit more substantial. Enjoy anyways :D

“You cuck!”

“Eat shit Smith!”

“This game is such shit!”

“That’s not what you said five minutes ago Sunshine.”

Smith ground his teeth and clutched the controller, fighting the urge to toss it at Trott’s head. It was the third red shell in the last lap, and he fell from 1st to 5th. Why he played this damn game, he would never know. Trott whooped and hollered as he crossed the finish line and Smith just put down the controller. Yoshi came to a stop and Smith took a chug of his rum and Coke. They had been playing Drunk Mario for almost an hour now and Smith was feeling the buzz. When he looked at Ross and Trott, they both donned rosy cheeks, their smiles wide. They high fived and Ross went to go fill their drinks for the next race. Smith felt arms snake around his neck and shoulders. Warm kisses peppered the back of his neck, warm fingers pressing into his chest.

“Sorry I shelled you Smith,” Trott teased.

“No you’re not,” he mumbled, but melted under the affection.

“No, no I’m not.” His laugh was warm and homely, and he smelled of rosemary. Trott had only recently started to be affectionate, and it was only ever borderline sensual. The first time Trott kissed Smith at the farmer’s market had put Smith on cloud nine for the rest of the weekend. But the private moments felt all the more special, knowing their relationship had come so far from a few months ago. Ross came back with a handle of rum and the liter of Coke. He smiled at Smith and Trott, tabled the drinks, and plopped down onto the floor with his two best friends. He nuzzled into Trott’s hair, his arms encasing them both.

Beep. Beep. Beep. GO!

“Smith, what the fuck?!”

“You mother cucker!”

“GFY!”


End file.
